


Day 183 - A poem written on skin

by Anarion



Series: An almost gravitational pull    (former '365 days of 221Bs' series) [183]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Kissing, Love, M/M, Orgasms, Poetry, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarion/pseuds/Anarion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Poetry. ‘A form of literary art, a fundamental creative act employing language’ says the dictionary.</b>
</p><p>Need your daily John/Sherlock fix? You've come to the right place.<br/>I am writing a 221B each day for a year (meaning 365 in total!). Every 221B will be based on a prompt given by Atlin Merrick (or sometimes a guest prompter like Verity Burns) on the same day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 183 - A poem written on skin

Poetry. ‘A form of literary art, a fundamental creative act employing language’ says the dictionary. It couldn’t be more wrong. They are both not poetic men, but they create their own poetry where words are not needed.

The soft moan, unable to disperse into the air because it gets captured between their lips. – That’s poetry.

The soft whisper of shaking fingers against cloth, the chime of a belt buckle being opened. – That’s poetry.

The soft thud that Sherlock’s head makes when he lets it fall back against the wall. – That’s poetry.

The almost inaudible sound of John’s hands stroking down on Sherlock’s skin, from his shoulders over his stomach to his hips, where they halt for a moment – completely inaudibly – before they move again, only to come to rest on his warm buttocks. – That’s poetry.

The choked off whimper that escapes Sherlock’s mouth when John slowly licks from his balls to the tip of his cock and the loud moan that follows when John swallows him down. – That’s poetry.

The almost-shouts that fall from his lips, even the wet sliding sound and John’s grunts. – All that is poetry.

In the end, although unneeded, there even are a few words: “God... yes... now... JOHN!”

Together they create love, the purest form of poetry.  
And if you don’t agree,  
I’d say that’s blasphemy!

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was 'poetry'. You never saw that coming, right? ;)  
> And for people who think that poetry needs rhymes, I hid one in the last two sentences. :P
> 
> This is day 183, which means that we have reached the middle of the 365 days. Thank you all for staying with me, for reading and for commenting! <3  
> I wouldn't have come this far without you.
> 
> And all my love to Atlin. This wouldn't even have started without you! <3


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